


Bring On The Night

by leafchron



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Marauders' Era, Speculative, Surreal, dreamscape, space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 17:24:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5425496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leafchron/pseuds/leafchron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The muggles landed a man on the moon.<br/>He wondered if he was on the moon, if he would be in werewolf form the entire time, never changing back to human.</p><p>Also including but not limited to: Trichophilia, moon of cheese, star-gazing, salt water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring On The Night

The muggles landed a man on the moon.

He wondered if he was on the moon, if he would be in werewolf form the entire time, never changing back to human.

He would be all alone, but that wouldn’t be too different from the current state, and at least alone, he would never be able to hurt anyone.

Except the moon. Which he could rip to shred, under his claws, for all anyone cared.

Or maybe the moon would be made of ripe, fat, cheese, like the muggle children’s tale his mother had read to him, when the moon was funny, not terrifying.

That his paws would sink into, making deep indentations on the surface.

And instead of howling at the skies, he would be howling at what would be the ground.

Soft cheesy moon ground.

Did wolves liked cheese?

***

 

The final school year was a firework he couldn’t contain, waves upon waves at his feet that refused to stop, that threatened to sweep him under (under the moon’s bidding; again, the moon’s fault).

He felt the rush and languished limp of time, the hours that sank in their heels and refused to move, the months that left him in their wake. Of the nothing that could be held onto, his desperation overflowed smoothly everywhere.

He wanted to stop everything. He wanted everything to stop.

But the turning of the sun and the moon marched on, indifferent, merciless. Callous to his needs. He clung onto seconds like air. He spent sleepless hours staring out the window, watching the sun rise relentlessly, tauntingly, stealing his hours.

He had to watch, wide-eyed, unable to look away, as he slowly lost everything that mattered, as all of his treasures bled into the ground.

 

 

Hope and redemption were odd, unfamiliar tasting words on his tongue. Alien, unacquainted sensations. Strange bedfellows he never expected to share his bed with.

Least of all to come in the form of a thoughtlessly cruel, unthinkingly loyal, mentally and emotionally unstable, astringently stubborn, imperious, irascible and mercurial, overly dramatic, rascally, pointlessly rebelling, disrespectfully insolent, caustically dismissive, ridiculously beautiful, sun.

The sun was also a star, after all.

None of the above was blatantly untrue, and yet.

Did he think if he spread out all the flaws on the ground, listed them down meticulously and objectively, compiled a star chart out of them, it would make a dent in the thick, overgrown, untrimmed, tangled, mass of undergrowth that was his affections.

 

 

There was long, dark, glossy hair to tangle his fingers in. It was downy and gentle, and refused to catch in his fingers. It was of consideration length and thickness, but never overwhelming, never self-entangling, never uncontrollable, and of immeasurable, unmistakable quality.

It smelt like amortentia.

He could cart his fingers through it and it would flow like fresh river water through the gaps between his fingers. He could run his fingers from root to tip, smoothing over it. He could make soft, fat, loose plaits out of it, or streamlined, tight, thin braids. He could let it fan out over his lap. He could stroke it tenderly. He could twist it and make a bun out of it. He could take a lock and wound it around his fingers, or let it fall lightly from between fingers. He could bury his fingers deep in it until he could touched the scalp, until he could massage the scalp and rub soothing circles. He could put his nose in it and inhale, inhale, inhale.

It was as dangerous and addictive as downing amortentia by the goblet.

He could hold onto fistfuls of it when the mouth on his cock was heated and overwhelming. He could tug it backwards, making the back under him arch impossibly so, highly responsive to his every touch, to his every whim. He could brush sweaty strands of it away from flushed face, so they didn’t get caught in the gasping, moaning, pleading mouth, so they didn’t fall into the burning, over-bright eyes fixed on him, so they didn’t get in the way of him pressing forehead to forehead, while he pushed, ever so slowly, into the body wrapped around his. He could smooth it back into place at the end, the body clinging tight to him, a heavy head buried in the crook of his shoulder, or the broad expanse of a back aligned, adhered to his chest, so none of the stray strands would slip between his parted lips, or tickle his nose.

He could whisper all manners of drowsy confessions, sprung up unbidden from his heart, loosened from their usual tight rein by approaching sleep, into the dark head of hair propped right against his chin.

 

 

He screamed and screamed and screamed as his bones snapped and reshaped, as his organs shifted, his skin stretched and tore, the unfairness of it growing fur and claws, the brutal injustice tearing out in a throaty howl.

Until there was blissful oblivion.

When he woke up these mornings, however, there were rarely new self-inflicted slashes.

There were, however, fresh tears on his skin, a slick wetness.

He touched his eyes. It wasn’t his.

 

 

In the sixth year he wanted to hate, he wanted to rage, he wanted to work himself into a right state and erupt, he wanted to unleash cold, stony, silent malevolence.

But he didn’t want to, really.

He wanted to sit on the grass, headful of mischief on his lap, treating his lap like a personal, well-slept and well-shaped pillow after long periods of usage. He would have a book in one hand and the other hand threading through compliant locks on his lap, not absorbing sufficient words to be reading, occasionally gazing at the sky, occasionally letting his eyes rove over the soundly sleeping figure. Where he would be seized by an urge to reluctantly remove his fingers from the hair, and run them along the lines of restful lips, almost a caress, careful not to wake.

He wanted to sit in the great hall, feel a persistent foot rub tantalisingly up and down his calves, grey eyes blinking innocently across from him, while he bit down curses, curled his fingers into fists. Find bits of his favourite food mysteriously appearing on his plate, look up to see lips curving into a concerned smile. He uncurled his fists, straightened his fingers out, swallowed down the curses willingly.

He wanted to sit in a class and attempt to take notes, constantly, helplessly being distracted by the figure next to him. The figure next to him was idly twirling a quill between his fingers, eyes glazed, mind a thousand miles away. He could never quite fathom what went on in that so brilliant it left him breathless, almost genius-level mind when it wasn’t tearing itself apart. He noted with displeasure and sick jealousy the smouldering looks smitten girls would throw at the figure next to him, as though trying to burn a hole through him. He wanted the figure next to him to finally rouse, eyes alert and sharpening again, focusing its pinpoint laser at him, always with him the target of that intelligent, searing gaze. The girls would go unnoticed. At this point sometimes the figure next to him would give up twirling the quill, which had no chance of ever being utilised, hand disappearing under the table, and the next thing he would find a warm hand firmly grasping his left hand, so the note-taking with the right was uninterrupted. He would think with guilty satisfaction, _mine_ , hand curling tightly in return, and continued taking notes with renewed vigour.

That was all he wanted, and he said as much.

This time the slick wetness on his face was his, despite his not wanting to.

He found his face thrust into dirty robes, bloody arms squeezing him so tight his lungs were protesting, myriad of words flowing into his hair, sorrys, so many sorrys, too many sorrys, not enough sorrys, not sufficiently sorry.

Sorrys that didn’t restore to him what he wanted.

He took two weeks away, away from all of them and everything, because there was still too much noise and clutter in his head and he needed to process it, calm the storm inside before he could take another step. He accepted, without a single word uttered, without a single reciprocal act, the offerings and amends-making attempts and acts of repentance.

Throughout it all he missed, missed with a passion, and ultimately decided he did not want to go on without. That was the most important thing to him, the crux upon which everything else hinged, after all. If he decided he still wanted that in his life, that he refused to continue living with the void, then he was going to forgive properly. Because not forgiving, or not forgiving completely, would slowly poison both of them, would just be killing himself eventually, and he never saw the point of such futile, self-damaging endeavours. He wanted, most of all, and he wasn’t going to deny himself any longer.

_I forgive you._

There were more tears on his skin, not his, but the storm inside him was now calm waters and balmy weather and his world had finally righted itself, again.

 

 

He had heard so many tales of how schoolday, teenaged couplings did not go the distance, wilted from the exposure to the harsh glare of the adult world, unprotected by the sanctity of formal education. Beaten into submission by the daily grind, rendered and butchered by either screaming irreconcilable changes, or apathetic boredom, and finally vanquished into the ether by over-acclimatisation, the suffering of life.

He was not naïve enough to believe he would be that unique unicorn of lasting first love, or that reborn and rising-above-the-ashes-of-teenage-infatuation phoenix.

But there were so many pronouns, and pronouns combined. _You, me. You and I together._

There were mentions of shared proximity. _A flat in London, one bedroom, that’ll do._

There were other promises, of inseparability and of attachment (because they were different), of devotion, of endurance, of intimacy.

They were insidious, and they slithered and crawled along his bloodstreams, made nesting places inside the crevices of his ribcage, pushing his heart, and lungs up against his ribs, slowly pushing everything out until there was nothing else left.

 

***

The spaceman was in a full astronaut suit, white and technical, holding a flag with a sharp, pointy end, which he stabbed viciously into the moon-cheese surface. Salt liquid trickled out weakly.

He could imagine the moon wailing as it was conquered, its territory marked and claimed, its power subdued.

The spaceman’s face was obscured by the dark helmet but he could tell spaceman was grinning with wicked glee and victory. Spaceman held out a thickly gloved hand to him and commanded, voice muffled by the heavy helmet, “Come on”. He stretched his hand out, and saw it was peaky skin, opposable thumb, wriggling phalanges. Somehow he was human again, naked and lying on wet cheese, a little cold and a little gross, but human again.

The spaceman would whisk him away, to a star of his choosing. There were so many stars to select from; the spaceman gave his personal recommendation for the brightest star. To traverse the dark spaces between the luminous spheres of plasma together, the freedom of infinitesimal in the face of sempiternity, to be consumed and be made whole again, wholly connected and absorbed into the infinite.

He smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song of the same title by The Corrs.


End file.
